My Manic and I
by ifyourstillfreestartrunning
Summary: When everyones favorite sociopath meets our lovely narator, events spiral wickedly out of hand. Read if you wish to be entertained. Leave if you do not.
1. Epilogue

The sentence you are currently reading is probably not what you would expect. There are many ways to tell a story, but I chose this way. For him.

If you were expecting some sappy love story with badly developed characters and no real reason for their mutual attraction then I thoroughly suggest you read elsewhere. This isn't going to be pretty.


	2. Chapter 1

I've never liked doors. They're far too big and suspicious looking. You never know what is behind them, and you just can't plan ahead. Think about knocking on them. You don't know who's in there, any old sod could answer. Could be your dear old mum, could be a Bengal tiger. Could be the sodding London philharmonic for all you know.

And another thing, they stop you from getting places, just stop for a minute and imagine a world with no doors. Admittedly using the bathroom would be awkward and it would completely undermine that great scene in the shining, but think, you could go anywhere you wanted, see anything you please, take anything that catches you fancy. Doesn't that sound like a lovely little Utopia?

But anyway, I've strayed far enough from my original point as it is, you see, my lovely, captive audience, there I was. Skipping towards that door in all my glory, cane in hand, reflecting on what a titillating evening it had been when wham. Out the door and ready to greet the bunch of fellows that stood in wait, and then it hit me. No seriously one of the bastards hit me over the head with a milk bottle. A milk bottle? I mean honestly; could he not have been just a little more dastardly? I thought I brought my boys up well, showing them the tricks of the trade, letting them scuffle over anything that didn't catch my eye. It was painstaking work, half the time it was like herding a flock of sheep away from a cliff, although the sheep would probably have inspired more intelligent conversation and initiative. And yet this is how they repay me.

I had always imagined that my downfall would stem from a knife wound or an overdose or something dramatic that warranted emotional background music and slow motion. But a milk bottle?

Anyway, there I was, all alone in front of this unnecessarily big house in the middle of nowhere with milk pouring down my cheeks and my trusty lads nowhere to be seen. I must admit it took me a minute to recover from the initial shock of being smashed over the head, and my eyes gave everything a sort of dreamlike quality. I eventually managed to sit myself upright but then the fucking sirens started. Sigh. As you can probably tell this was not my night.

"_Boy, hold me closer._

_You know it's only you for me tonight_

_Boy, don't you let me go_

_I'll be gone by the mornings light."_

The voice crooned the words over the speakers. Her surgically enhanced scarlet lips so close to microphone she was practically sucking on it. That right my darlin', keep it up and maybe someone will take you home tonight. You look like you need it.

I kicked my boots up on the table, scattering bottles and glasses. I didn't care, the only people around me conscious enough of their surroundings to do anything but gaze listlessly into space were too busy trying to get there as fast as they could.

Never been too fussed with the milk plus myself. Intoxication leaves too much time for self reflection. You lose your inhibitions and your mask begins to crack. Some folk love getting off their faces because they can behave the way they secretly crave. Would be so much easier if we just kept up our facades, because honestly I do not care that so and so had an abortion last month and feels guilty, I don't give a fuck who drunkenly cheated on who. Life isn't about that. Life is about staying alive and keeping your power. As soon as you start caring about people all the foundations you've built crumble to dust and you start the slippery slide down.

I stopped caring long ago. Hasn't killed me yet.

Conor walked into the bar. His dark eyes scanned the crowd and alighted on me. I caught his grimace, he didn't have good news.

I stood, brushed the ash from my lap and strode purposefully out the door. Conor followed in my wake.

The others stood outside in a half crescent, three of them in all. All wearing similar black leather breeches and faded black blazers. Their signature ox blood boots sets us apart from the other street gangs in the area.

The boys looked up as I approached, they fidgeted nervously and turned away.

I didn't waste time on preamble.

"What have you lot fucked up now then?"

Luke was the first to meet my eyes.

"It weren't us Rory," He murmured.

"Who then?"

They shared a nervous look between them before Connor stepped forwards.

"It's him Rors, his lads betrayed him. Nearly got him 'rested they did. Always told you they were bastards didn't I nick-" He faltered under the steely look I gave him.

"Didn't ask for the history lesson boys. Where is he?"

Nick spoke up this time.

"Thats just the thing lass, he's in the hollow."

I couldn't hide the spasm of anger that crossed my face. Those idiots.

"You let him in the hollow?" I hissed. "Is he still alive?"

"More than alive, I'd say. Raring to go, couldn't wait to see you."

_Fuck._

Sometimes my boys were worse than useless. Better than them trying to lock me up though I suppose. As I turned away from the bar and the boys followed behind me, I allowed myself the smallest of smirks.

I, Araura, Your other lovely narrator, had the whole west side in her clutches. All it would take was some flattery, the tiniest bit of manipulation and a few brutal murders. Shouldn't be too hard.


End file.
